Ghost clubs such as this, fed by popular TV shows, are springing up in small towns across the country. "We're seeing a rebirth of 19th-century spiritualism," says parapsychologist author Pamela Heath. "It happens in times of stress and anxiety." A parallel trend is the boom in full-time haunted houses. America Haunts, a trade association, estimates that there are now 1,200 haunted houses in the U.S., with annual revenue of $500 million. Both numbers have doubled in the past 10 years.

The phenomenon is prevalent in the Rust Belt. "People in these depressed areas want to escape reality," says America Haunts organizer
Ben Armstrong,
who co-owns a haunted house in an old Pepsi-Cola bottling plant in Atlanta. "One of the areas with the most haunted houses is around Detroit."

Perched on the Ohio River, Moundsville, pop. 9,000, once boomed. It had its own trolley network. Fostoria Glass Co., U.S. Stamping Co., which made cookware, Fokker Aircraft Corp. and other plants employed thousands.

Stephen Hummel

The town lost its manufacturing jobs in the 1980s and '90s, and the biggest employers are now Wal-Mart Stores Inc. and gas-driller Williams Cos., says Mayor Eugene Saunders. In addition, some residents work at two nearby coal mines.

Mr. Hummel was raised in Moundsville by his mother and his grandfather, known as "Pap." The stocky, muscular kid played linebacker and dreamed of going into the Air Force Combat Control Team. He joined the Air Force in 2002. After a few months, he left because he says he couldn't stay under the required weight limit.

He returned to his hometown, looking for something to do. He sold cars. He married, and divorced after two years. In 2006, Pap helped him open Steve's Gym. Mr. Hummel is an amateur weightlifter.

Two years ago, again with his grandfather's help, he opened German Jack's Weinery. He sells chicken sausage, bratwursts and franks.

The space had been a poker cafe. An adjacent room contained slot machines. "I don't condone gambling, so those had to go," says Mr. Hummel.

In the place of one-armed bandits, Mr. Hummel installed spiritualist esoterica. He had become fascinated with the paranormal while working as a tour guide at a local former prison in 2005. "I've seen a lot of things," he says. "Shadow people, hair getting pulled."

The prison, once the West Virginia State Penitentiary, is a mecca for lovers of the paranormal, and the source of Mr. Hummel's spirit fancy. As a tourist attraction, it brings in about 12,000 visitors a year, generating about $1 million in revenue.

The castle-like turreted penitentiary opened in 1866 and operated until 1995. The sprawling complex once included a 10-acre farm and its own coal mine. It housed violent and insane criminals. About 1,000 inmates died inside; 104 by execution. The electric chair, nicknamed Old Sparky, is now an exhibit. Families wielding iPhones visit it along with cramped cells, underground pool halls and a basketball court enclosed by barbed wire.

Ghosts are said to emerge from the storied and violent past. In 1931, a prisoner named Frank Hyer was accidentally decapitated while being hanged for killing his wife. "Booze is the cause of this whole thing," Mr. Hyer had told reporters. The consequence of Mr. Hyer's grisly accident was that the prison stopped holding public executions.

One inmate was Charles Manson's mother, held on a robbery charge. Mr. Manson grew up down the road. In 1986, he asked to be transferred to Moundsville, in a letter that is on display. "You may know some of my ken folk," he wrote. "I'm a beanie brother from down the road." He was denied. "We're all better off with his spirit roaming California when he dies," says prison facilities manager Tom Stiles, one of the two full-time employees.

The prison gave Mr. Hummel a bed, handmade knives and pictures of famous inmates.

Mr. Hummel trolled estate sales for spooky paintings and creepy dolls. "This is Claire, people can feel her actual presence," he says, pointing to an engraving of a stern-looking woman.

Mr. Hummel picks up a doll in a glass. "It was believed dolls carried spirits," he says. "This one has a special energy, so I wrapped it in tissue and put it in a martini glass."

Mr. Hummel added life masks of celebrities he says he bought for around $25 apiece online. Elizabeth Taylor. Bela Lugosi. Abraham Lincoln. "I wanted to get Marilyn Monroe, but the guy with the mold wanted $10,000," he says.

People in town donated haunted artifacts. Nick James, a courthouse deputy marshal with a carpentry business on the street, brought a rocking chair. It had come from his son-in-law's grandmother. "I felt like someone was looking over my shoulder while I was restoring it," he says. "Gave me goose bumps."

Not everybody in Moundsville wants to play ball with Mr. Hummel. The town is named for a 69-foot-high burial mound built by Native Americans around 200 B.C. The biggest conical mound of its kind in North America, it is now a fenced-in museum and archaeological site across from the prison. Mr. Hummel pleaded to be allowed to hunt for ghosts on-site.

The state said no. "We felt it would be disrespectful to Native Americans," says
Caryn Greshman,
deputy commissioner for the West Virginia division of culture and history.

On a recent evening, local ghost fans gathered at the hot dog shop for a lecture on paranormal activities. Michael Kuderski arrived with his bag of ghost-hunting equipment: camera, tape recorder, a "Ghost Meter" that measures radiation and a divining string, used when asking ghosts simple questions. The string swings one direction for "Yes" and the other for "No."

He said he had captured the voice of a ghost in the restaurant and offered to play it.

WSJ opens select articles to reader conversation to promote thoughtful dialogue. See the 'Join the Conversation' area to the rightbelow for stories open to conversation. For more information, please reference our community guidelines. Email feedback and questions to moderator@wsj.com.